The Daydream Believer Affair
by RoseLight
Summary: Sometimes, an agent has to wonder how to live a 'normal' life.


THE DAYDREAM BELIEVER AFFAIR

Act 1 Tea and Sympathy

lllya Kuryakin dragged up the stairs to his apartment. The recent affair had been a disaster from the beginning. Untrustworthy sources, incomplete information, sloppy field support. Lives were wasted, and the mission an unmitigated failure.

He took failure personally, brooded over what he was doing in this profession anyway. And now, even the solace of his neighbor's company was denied him.

He heard rustling in the third floor apartment down the hall from his. Poor old Madame Bonnecieux had passed away just a week ago. Were the vultures gathering already? He took a few deliberate steps but the sounds continued. He tried the knob cautiously, so as not to alert the intruder. He approached the figure from behind, but she felt his presence and swung about suddenly and she screamed.

Kuryakin smothered her mouth, so only her terrified eyes showed over his hand. Then she bit him, and he screamed. Then he knew. "It's-you're Madeleine, aren't you?"

"What, precisely, are you doing lurking in Grandmere's apartment? Who are you and how do you know my name?"

He pointed to the silver filigree frame on the piano. "Mme. Bonnecieux , your grandmother, was very proud of you. She showed me your picture often."

Fear fled her eyes, replaced by warm recognition. "Of course-you're her foreign fellow. You brought her coffee and croissants and conversation. Oh, Sir, forgive me."

Illya was still sucking her bite marks off his hand. "No, no, my fault entirely. I should not have startled you. I was just concerned when I heard someone in here-"

"How kind of you to be so protective," she smiled shyly. " And I heard New Yorkers were all rude and self-involved. Could you-would you stay for a bit, for tea? It's difficult, sorting through her things. I could use a break, and some company..."

Kuryakin had served his share of survival duty. He understood. He stayed.

"She spoke of you," the girl said as she prepared the tea.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes-cream? honey?-she said you had charming old world manners and how she would make an extra pan of strudel to fatten you up and-" she stopped, blushing.

"And?"

"How sad it was that so kind a gentleman should be all alone." The whistling steam from the pot rescued them from an awkward silence.

Illya learned that Madeleine Merry Deveraux was doing her masters' studies in music performance and composition. She played cello with the New York Conservatory.

"So, I hope I won't disturb you with all my practicing," she apologized in advance.

"You're moving here?" the gloomy Russian's interest picked up.

"Yes, it's rent-controlled, so the family gets first chance at it. And since I'm studying in the city…"

"I believe your Grandmere would be pleased to put the apartment to such good use. Perhaps, if you are bored some evening, we could initiate a jam session."

"You play?" she sounded delighted.

"Piano and guitar, mostly," he replied modestly.

"That makes me feel so welcome already. Thank you," she shook his hands, tears threatening to melt her eyes. "Oh, that reminds me, Grandmere wanted you to have her AK." Madeleine went down the hall, presumably to fetch his inheritance.

"Your grandmother had an assault rifle?"

"No, no," she emerged from the back room. "AK, Anna Karenina, her cat."

"Anna Karenina? Is she a role model?" he joshed gently.

"Not mine. She sacrificed everything for passion and died miserably. More like a cautionary tail, pardon my pun."

He smiled. "Just one thing I must know. Do you happen to have your Grandmere's strudel recipe?"

# # # # #

Napoleon was waiting in Kuryakin's living room and eavesdropping.

"C'mon, Anya, Anya, that's my good girl. I'll see you tonight...no, no more kisses, my pretty..."

A knock at the door interrupted Napoleon's spying on his partner. He strolled over to perform the security check and opened the door.

"Illya- oh, excuse me," Madeleine apologized. "I was looking for my neighbor."

"And you are-"

She had a fresh and open smile. "Oh, I'm Illya's Cat Lady. Cat Lady, cello player, strudel baker, not to be confused with Studebaker. Madeleine Deveraux. You're Napoleon?"

Solo glided his hand towards her in a warm caressing handshake.

Illya emerged from the bedroom and Napoleon gave him an admiring look that the Russian could not interpret.

"Illya, I'm off to Baccarelli's, can I pick up anything for you?" she offered.

"Ah, Madeleine, I'll be out of town for a few days, could you look after my roommate?"

"Of course, be glad for the company. Have a safe trip."

Both partners watched her bounce down the steps, swinging her canvas bag.

"Burning the candle at both ends?" Napoleon teased.

Kuryakin did not rise to the bait. "Anya is my cat, Anna Karenina. Madeleine is my neighbor."

"Oh, yeah, your strudel lady," said Solo slyly. "She looks pretty good for 87."

Kuryakin knew he'd have to explain. "Mme. Bonnecieux passed away. She willed me her cat. Her great-grandaughter moved in ."

"How neighborly were you?"

"I carried her parcels. She baked me strudel. I unplugged her sink. We talked, when I was in town."

"Ah-ha."

"She was 87 years old, Napoleon. She talked; I listened. It's called respecting one's elders. She had a lot of stories to tell."

"And great-granddaughter?"

Kuryakin shrugged. "I helped her carry a few boxes upstairs. We had tea. She's a nice girl, a music student. "

"Played any duets yet?"

* * *

"Stop grinning, Napoleon. We are simply neighbors. It's just-nice-to have someone around, someone who notices things..."

* * *

Act II The Tender Trap

Another town, another stake out, another hotel.

Illya unpacked his suit case and discovered an unfamiliar bit of fluff pressed between his turtlenecks. He pulled it out and stared at it, and so did Napoleon. It was an ice blue lace teddy.

"Details, details..." Solo prodded.

"Napoleon, I-well, for heaven's sake, this is not mine-"

"Not your size," Solo studied his fingers closely. "Pity, it matches so well with your eyes."

Illya rolled his ice blue eyes. "Madeleine must've mislaid it when she did the laundry."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

"She needed more clothes to balance her load and offered to toss in some of my stuff. Napoleon, what am I going to do with this -thing-? I can't embarrass her by returning it personally. I obviously can't keep it. Damn, now every time I see her I'm going to think about this!"

Napoleon grinned. "Then you can return it, old chum. It has accomplished its mission."

"What?"

Napoleon enjoyed educating his partner. "Women want to drive you crazy. It's part of their charm."

The Russian was slightly horrified. "You can't mean she-planted it?"

Solo chuckled. "Your little music maiden has baited a tasty trap."

Illya sat heavily on the edge the bed. His head fell between his shoulders and he sighed mightily. "Would it be such a trap, Napoleon? To live a normal life ? I went from a state orphanage, to a state school, to the state navy, to UNCLE. I never had my own life-never thought about it. But maybe it's time now...don't you get weary of spending all your time with international outlaws and sinister scientists ? Y'know, most PhD's do not spend their work weeks getting shot and stabbed, poisoned and punched, drugged and drowned, trapped and tortured-and for me, that's a slow week."

The senior agent patted his shoulder. "C'mon. You're always melancholy before a new mission."

Kuryakin shook his head. "I've travelled the whole world. Now, I'd just like to see the inside of my apartment for a change. I could teach, I've had offers. I could go back to the lab. 9 to 5, weekends off, no holster required."

"Illya, you're worrying me..."

# # # # #

Kuryakin knocked at her door, three sharp raps. "Madeleine, are you all right?"

She opened the door to admit him. "Illya, you have a strange habit."

"Only one ?"

Madeleine's smile warmed him. "When you knock. You never say "hi" or "it's me" or "you here ?" It's always 'are you all right?'"

"Sorry. I'm just a pessimist at heart," he confessed.

"No, it's nice," she assured him. " Unique. Makes me feel protected."

"Ah, well, it's just all dark inside and I heard voices-" he tried to justify his interest.

"Just me and Glenn Miller. Join us-"she swept her arm in invitation. "Kick off your shoes, lie back on the floor, watch the candles flicker." She exhaled deeply and achingly slow. "OOhhh...isn't this glorious ...you have to be dead not to feel this stuff in your veins-"

He cleared his throat. "My friend Napoleon made an unusual observation...he said you were, well, trolling for me." He held his breath against the chance of her dissolving into a fit of graduate giggles. But she was very quiet for the count of eight heartbeats.

"Illya..." she said his name like music, "Illya, would that be...such a dreadful prospect?"

He shook his blond mane slowly, sorrowfully. "You don't know anything about me."

She slid her hand to cover his lightly, and tilted her head kissing close. Her hair smelled of fresh wild flowers and Illya was suddenly dizzy with undreamed possibilities.

"You could teach me," she whispered. "Kuryakin 101?"

Her offer lingered in the dark because he could not immediately trust his voice. His brain was racing. Somewhere public, something simple. "Ah,...Sunday brunch, perhaps?"

Her shadow smiled. "Lovely. You can meet me at St Timothy's after 10."

Hmm. "That's a church."

"Yes. I play for the 8 am service."

# # # # #

Act III Where No Spy Has Gone Before...

"Napoleon, we're partners. We've saved the world and each other on a regular basis for years now-"

"Yeessss…" Solo agreed cautiously.

"I'm..ah..wondering if you need to save me now."

"Your little masters' candidate mastering you?" teased his friend.

" It's just that…Madeleine is so different from the people we meet in our work. She's sweet and stable and genuine. She's innocent. Hell, she's sane. She's not going to disappear or blow up or bake me poison strudel. I can knock at her door and I know she'll be there and be happy to see me. She's lived there just a few months and already her place is a home. After three years, my flat still looks like a neglected Hotel 6. It's just never mattered to me before."

Solo took his friend very seriously. He knew Illya lived a solitary life, and always assumed that the Russian preferred it that way. It had never occurred to him that Illya had never had a genuine choice. His partner was lonely.

"OK, no teasing. Although you must admit I've waited a long time for the opportunity."

"I'm just not certain I trust relationship advice from a man who changes women as often as he does his sox."

"Then let me serve as cautionary example."

"OK," he began. " Well, after church Sunday-"

"Church? you went to church with her?" Napoleon was instantly alarmed.

"Yes, Napoleon, people do go to church-no one we know, of course-And she didn't ask me to the service. We were meeting there anyway so I went early to see her perform." Illya omitted the unknown feelings the service had evoked-handbells and candlelight, chanted liturgy and incense-something he had never experienced as a child of Communism. He had never considered spiritual life, after the evil he had witnessed in the field. Now, perhaps all things were possible...

"Well, just don't meet her family," Solo insisted. " Stall-"

Illya shifted his gaze downward.

Solo slapped his partner's head. "You did it! You went home to meet the family!"

"We took a drive and just dropped by, casually. No big-family-holiday -reunion thing. Just coffee. "

"And the ubiquitous strudel."

"We're neighbors. I paid my respects. I knew her great-grandmother." Kuryakin tried to rationalize. " They are nice, normal people with real lives. "

"Uh-huh. My friend, I can't give you any advice. You're in deeper than I've ever been; where no spy had gone before..." he intoned.

"Napoleon," his voice was as somber as Solo had ever remembered it . "There are things I've done, for UNCLE and before, things I had to do, that were not technically...proper."

"You mean like lie, cheat, steal, kill, and flirt on duty?"

"Yeah. So, what if there is an Absolute Right and Wrong: what if what we are doing is objectively, morally, absolutely, Wrong, even if it is for the right reason ?"

"Illya, that's our job description. An agent who dwells on the moral implications and philosophy loses his edge and is usually dead. Along with his partner. Don't think so much," Solo warned.

"Madeleine has an honor, an innocence that intimidates me. I'm afraid for her to learn the things I've done professionally."

"Remember who she is," Solo advised, "She's not part of our dirty, deadly little game. Of course she may be appalled by the work you do. Do you really need to tell her ?"

"I really need to be honest with her, now, give her a fair choice, before things become too tangled."

Solo surveyed his friend closely. "Are you too tangled, Illya?"

"I just wish I'd studied more philosophy and less physics."

Act IV "Rats!"

His kisses were still not casual; rare enough that she counted every one and marked each on her calendar. He seemed to be experiencing some kind of mid-life crisis about his career as an international consultant, but he would not confide in her yet. Madeleine was a good student, but Kuryakin 101 was a tough course.

When they played music together, it seemed to soothe him. She was pleased that he was drinking more of her spice tea and less of his vodka. And when he was not travelling on the weekends, he sometimes dropped by St. Timothy's, ostensibly for the music.

On an ordinary Thursday, between concerto rehearsal and baroque composition class, Madeleine decided to use the spare key Illya had entrusted to her. He was going to be out of town til Saturday, he told her, and she was happy to provide AK with food and petting.

But even while she rattled the lock, she heard muffled voices. Had he neglected to switch off the radio? she mused, and just as she entered, a beefy arm slammed the door behind her, grabbed her and shoved her roughly into the bedroom.

The room was a mess-paper, files, discs strewn about, a lamp knocked over, contents of drawers scattered. Illya was standing quietly in front of his bookcase. He shut his eyes and shook his head when he saw her stumble in.

"Illya-what-" she followed his eyes and saw the second supposed burglar across from him, one hand on the phone and one hand steadying a large gun.

"You RAT!" she squeaked with all her might. "You rotten rat, rotten rat!"

Before Madeleine's assailant could muffle her cries, AK pounced from the top of the bookcase, one of her favorite perches. The squalling cat landed on the surprised gunman, sinking her claws deeply into his throat. Mme. Bonnecieux had trained her city cat well, to respond to rotten rats of all species.

Illya snatched up the gun and plugged the other intruder as he reached for his weapon. Then he spun back around and his second shot went straight through the chest of the gunman subdued by the cat, his blood splattering all over Madeleine. She gave a little shriek and a shudder and was struck silent.

Kuryakin activated his communicator to call in a cleaning crew, then turned his attention to her. Madeleine began to cry, softly, shaking. He reached out to reassure her and she clung to him like second skin, the villain's blood smearing them both.

He half-walked, half-carried her to her apartment and settled her on the couch beside him, never letting her go. He brushed his lips gently across her forehead.

"You have just passed your first pop quiz in Kuryakin 101," he whispered. "But there is more you need to know. Perhaps you will decide to drop the class before finals..."

# # # # #

Napoleon poked his head into Illya's office.

"That's a good way to get shot," Illya warned dryly .

"Have you heard from -"

Kuryakin shook his head. "No lyrics, no music."

"Well, I've come to take you to supper. You look like you've lost 10 pounds, " the CEA observed.

The blond shrugged. "What I've lost is my strudel supplier. Her brothers cleaned out the apartment. The conservatory said she's transferred. "

"C'mon, she's no pro," Solo tried to cheer his partner. "-we'll put our heads together and find her in 15 minutes." He snapped his fingers.

Illya gazed far into the distance. "I traced her two weeks ago. Just to make certain she is safe. It was a silly daydream, after all," he mused. "I was discouraged and confused, and looking for a solution, a radical change-"

"And now?"

The agent rewarded his friend with a wan smile. "I'm still discouraged and confused. But I'm not daydreaming any more."

"So," Napoleon clapped an arm around his shoulder, "what's for supper?"

"Ah, could we meet about 8:30, at St. Timothy's? I've got choir practice at 7."

finis


End file.
